The Dead Tree

Alone I stand,

thick, gnarled roots exposed.

The winds harsh erosion

intent on baring my secrets

to a curious world.

Merciless beams of sun

strip away

the last

of my color, leaving only

sun-bleached grays.

Tiny grains of silt

etch memories

permanently

onto every whitened branch.

I have no leaves left.

Still,

I stand my watch,

clinging

to the disintegrating cliff,

(clutching ancient rocks far beneath

earth’s surface)

hanging tenuously

            over the edge.

My reflection

beams back to me

from the glassy surface

of the lake’s

tender shore,

and one

elusive

teardrop (a remnant

of long ago)

silently

slips from my grasp to

                                fall

             fall

fall

to kiss the adoring

lips of the water below,

creating quiet rings of

gentle ripples

that frame

the silvery image

of my face.

One day,

I will release

my grip on mother earth

and leap

into the arms

of my patient

lover,

below.